


(even the comatose) they don't dance and tell

by skai_heda



Series: here in spirit [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, F/M, Ghosts, Sanctum (The 100), fuck the flame, that should be a tag, uh anyways no flame plot because ew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skai_heda/pseuds/skai_heda
Summary: clarke isn't totally dead. too bad john murphy's the only one who can (quite literally) see her ghost. and too bad it's up to them to find out who killed her.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin & John Murphy, Emori/John Murphy (The 100)
Series: here in spirit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740055
Comments: 12
Kudos: 164





	(even the comatose) they don't dance and tell

Guilt is an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling. It twists Murphy's guts, and he just wishes it would go away.

"When's the last time anyone saw her?" Raven asks.

"Didn't you hear what he said?" Emori cuts in. "She's dead. No one saw her since the party and Russell told Bellamy that she's dead."

"He could be _lying,"_ Raven insists.

"Yeah, but you really hope he isn't," Bellamy says quietly.

Even Raven Reyes can't dignify herself with a response to that one.

"I'm going to bed."

Everyone turns to look at Murphy, who rises from his seat. "What?" he continues. "I'm not in the mood to discuss this further."

He leaves without another word, without even looking at Emori. He just wants to be far away from this place, safe and sound in the comfort that he didn't meet the same fate as Clarke Griffin.

* * *

He nearly has a heart attack when he walks into his room. Perhaps this is his punishment for being glad that he's not dead. Or maybe he's dead already. Because sitting in the chair by his bed is the translucent form of a supposedly dead woman.

She's translucent. That means she has to be a ghost, right?

Clarke leaps up from her chair, shaking her head. "Don't scream, Murphy, please."

Well, Murphy most certainly does not take orders from _ghosts._ So he opens his mouth anyway. However, Clarke lunges with record speed, clamping her hand over his mouth. He recoils immediately, hissing. "Why is your hand so _cold?"_ he whisper-yells.

"Isn't it obvious, genius?" Clarke hisses back. "I am dead. And I have no clue who killed me."

Murphy frowns. "What?"

"I need your help, Murphy," she insists. 

"Let me just—let me just recap," he says softly. "You want me to help you solve your murder."

"Yeah," she says, sitting back down. She's still wearing that navy blue evening dress everyone had apparently last seen her in—the clothes in which Clarke had died.

"And—you don't know who did it?"

She shakes her head, crossing her arms.

"Okay," he sighs. "I'm going to bed now."

"Murphy—"

"I'm going to bed now and when I wake up I'll know that this was just a dream." He knows it has to be a dream, his subconscious way of expressing his guilt. He climbs into bed without even changing his clothes, and the last thing he sees before his eyelids drift shut is the sight of Clarke rolling her eyes.

* * *

The following morning is dull and gray, but Murphy is, for the moment, content. Clarke had not been there when he had woken up, so he had almost cheerfully dressed and gone downstairs. With the absence of that— _ghost—_ he had immediately dismissed it as a dream. And, as things turned out, dreams in his life turned out to be less scary than real life.

That relief evaporates as soon as he glances at one of the tables. Clarke is sitting there, in her blue dress, looking expectantly at the stairs.

Murphy can't help it—he gasps, a full, Alfred Hitchcock lead gasp. 

"John?" Emori asks, touching his arm. "Are you okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

 _Did she seriously just say that?_ Murphy was not interested in having his life turn into Insidious. 

"Just a little shaken, that's all," he says softly, turning to tuck Emori's hair behind her ear. Thank god for her. "Mind if I eat alone today? I'm—I just need to think—"

"I know," Emori says quietly. "It's all so weird, trying to come to terms with it."

"Yeah," he says, stepping away. "I'll—bye."

Thank god Clarke has chosen a secluded table, where no one will hear them talking.

"What the hell?" he hisses, sitting down. "What the literal hell?"

"Still think it's a dream?" she asks. It is meant to be teasing, but Clarke looks distressed. She takes one look at Murphy's breakfast, then buries her face in her hands. "Christ."

"How did this happen?" Murphy asks.

"I needed to latch on to someone. I could only show myself to one person with the strength I had."

"Why not Bellamy?" Murphy asks indignantly. "He would've believed you in a heartbeat."

"Yeah, but would you have believed him?" Clarke asks. "I know he would've believed me, I know he would've wanted to help me. But he's—he's mourning me. Will continue to do so, as far as everyone else knows. If he came down here and told everyone that my ghost wanted him to solve my murder—can you honestly tell me that you would've gone along with it?"

Murphy sighs slightly. "Makes sense."

Clarke goes silent then, playing with the fabric of her dress.

"He would do anything for you, you know?" he says quietly.

"He'd do anything for any of us," she responds, still not looking up. "Doesn't make me any different."

"Let me rephrase," Murphy says, leaning back. "Sure, he'd do anything for us, but he'd do way too much for you."

Clarke scowls. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says, because he really is a terrible person. "Should I?"

All he's looking to do is just provoke her a little bit, offer a biting remark. He doesn't expect her face to be drained of emotion as she looks up and leans back. "Fine," she mumbles, and in front of his very eyes, she dissolves into air.

Frowning slightly, Murphy finishes his food and goes back to the others. He's not quite ready to believe this yet, that Clarke's ghost really is looking to have him, of all people, avenge her. Despite their earlier conversation, Bellamy really did seem like the best option for this sort of thing.

What the hell is he thinking? Murphy can't possibly be considering a conversation with one of his own hallucinations. Because, no, no fucking way that Clarke's ghost is real. It makes no sense, no sense at all. Better to admit that he's lost his mind than to think that he actually communicated with a ghost.

"Murphy," Echo says, taking her hand off of Bellamy's back as she rises from her seat. Her boyfriend sits in silence, fingers laced and eyes downcast. "It's today."

"What's today?" Murphy mutters, allowing Echo to pull him away from everyone else.

"The—the, uh, the service. For Clarke."

"Already?" Murphy asks. "She died yesterday. We have no idea what happened, and now we're already moving on?"

"It's a Sanctum thing," Echo explains, crossing her arms. "They try to have the funeral as soon as possible."

"She's not part of Sanctum, she's part of—"

Murphy trails off, biting his lip.

"I know," she sighs. "You know, we've been talking about having a private thing, with just—just us. People who knew her from Earth. But for now, we have to go along with this."

Murphy reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Are we even going to try to find out what happened?"

"Russell will tell us," Echo says automatically, but six years in a tin can with her has made Murphy at least somewhat familiar to her mannerisms.

"You won't believe him either way, will you," Murphy says quietly. "You think he might be covering something up?"

"Either way, now isn't the time to discuss it," she replies in a low hiss. "Bellamy's—well, he's a mess—"

"Which is why now is the right time." He's not quite sure why he's even saying this, why he cares so much about Clarke's justice. "Bellamy will have the motivation to do it now. You know it would be cruel to watch him move on and then drop the bomb on him once he's in a better place."

"I know Bellamy," Echo says. "And I have a feeling he won't believe it either. So just—keep your mouth shut during the funeral, or at least until Russell tells us what happened. And then we'll go from there. Okay?"

She turns, but Murphy grabs her arm.

"What if—Clarke isn't exactly dead?"

Echo scowls. "What the hell, Murphy?" she pushes him back to a more secluded corner of the bar. "We know she's dead. we would've known if she wasn't."

"We never saw her body!"

"I did!" Echo hisses. "It barely looked like her, but it was her. And it wasn't something you would've ever wanted to see, Murphy. Don't ever say she's alive, especially not in front of Bellamy. It would kill him, Murphy, understand? It would wreck him."

Murphy frowns. "You saw her body?"

"Russell took me and Bellamy to see it," Echo sighs, wincing at the memory. "It—she's definitely dead, Murphy. Let it go."

* * *

At some point, it begins to rain.

Not exactly in Sanctum itself, where the city is covered by the radiation shield under a controlled climate, but the sky is even grayer than morning, casting a dull haze over everything. The people gather in front of the castle, and watch as Russell lights a torch from the main balcony. Him and his family all wear white—another strange Sanctum mourning tradition. Murphy looks around in the few minutes before the ceremony, and amongst the dark colors of his own people and the white clothes of the Sanctumites, he spots something that shouldn't be there.

"I'm going to take a step back," he murmurs to Emori, who just nods, looking concerned. Murphy maneuvers his way through the crowd, at last coming to stand in a spot where he just barely see the flame.

"This is—so weird," Clarke says softly, watching her own funeral with awe. She looks almost comically out of place in her evening dress on the sidelines of the sea of mourning attire.

He thinks back to what Echo had said that morning, about her body.

"Do you know _how_ it happened?" Murphy asks quietly.

"How I—died?" Clarke inquires, frowning. "Not exactly, but I think I may have ruled out some possibilities."

"Were you possibly—stabbed or shot?" he asks.

"No," she says immediately. "Look." She holds up the hand that he hasn't really paid attention to—it's wrapped in white bandages. "I still have this." She gestures towards her neck, towards the faint but noticeable finger-shaped bruises that are there. "I still have the mark where—where Bellamy choked me. If I had been mutilated or something, I'm pretty sure it would show."

"So whose body was it?" he mutters, glancing at the flame again. The crowd apparently seems to murmur a prayer at that moment.

"Body? What body?" she hisses.

"Echo told me that Russell took her and Bellamy to see your body," Murphy explains. "She didn't want to go into too much detail, but she made it seem like it was—horribly damaged. But she knew it wasn't you."

Clarke runs her bandaged hand over the bruises on her neck. "That can't be right."

"Could have been another person," Murphy says quietly. "That at least had some of your most prominent features. The hair, the complexion, the eyes. Could've been anyone, really."

"A couple nights ago, we lost a good woman," Russell says, his voice washing over the crowd. Clarke freezes, turning her head. "Her name was Clarke Griffin, and she passed away at the Naming Day party."

Slowly, she puts her good hand to her mouth.

"There were terrorists hidden there," Russell continues. "She was kidnapped, and killed by the Children of Gabriel. The murderers have since then been imprisoned."

"Imprisoned," Murphy says. "Who?"

"Say her name, and give her to the stars," Russell finishes, and all around them, people start to murmur Clarke's name.

"I'm going to be sick," Clarke says, almost doubled over.

"Ghost vomit?" Murphy says, then winces. Not the time.

She straightens, evidently seeming to have not processed his comment. "Where's Bellamy?"

"He's at the front, why?"

Clarke disappears, and Murphy makes his way to where his friends stand, knowing Clarke will be there.

He finds her standing in front of Bellamy, searching his face. He obviously can't see her, and Murphy can almost hear Clarke's heart break at the sight of Bellamy's face.

He can't speak to her now. Talking to himself wouldn't look great at a funeral.

Clarke steps away, rubbing her arms. She falters slightly at the sight of Raven's impassive face, kneels before Madi, who cries silently.

Murphy never really assumed that he would want to hug a ghost, but here he is. Clarke looks smaller than he's ever seen her, every ounce of that towering authority gone. He watches her disappear again, and honestly, how did he get here? He went from hating her on principle to wanting to comfort her _ghost._

But he supposes that hatred wasn't really altogether there. Sure, it was easier to hate her, because from the moment he saw her, she didn't seem real. Swimming in privilege, looking like she's never had a single speck of dirt under her fingernails, ever. Like some deity, some totem of riches and comfort. And then, as she amassed power and a name for herself, even among the Grounders, she went from a deity to a legend. And in Murphy's eyes, that was the biggest thing. To be remembered—not quite in the right way, but known. Clarke was rarely an actual human to him. No, she was something else. Something higher, something less substantial. Myth—legend.

Wow, he really makes it sound like he absolutely adored her. Of course, Murphy didn't admire all the things she had directly or indirectly caused (he glances sideways at Emori, thinking of her on a metal table). Her part in the third end of the world had especially strengthened the case against her.

But he thinks about the smaller things—her kneeling over a ledge, crying over something that wasn't really as important as it should have been, at least not the Murphy he was when they first landed. He remembers her crying over another woman's dying body. It was strange, because that's really when Murphy realized that Clarke _was_ capable of love, and of pain.

She loves his cooking, that's for sure. He would never admit it to anyone else, but he still burns with pride whenever he remembers the look on Clarke's face when she tried his food.

He supposes he loves her, in some strange, unspeakable way. Somehow, along the long road, she has become family, no matter how many cruel words he had thrown at her, no matter how much bitter anger he had held for her. And only that could explain his overwhelming need to help her now, the fear bubbling in his throat when she held a blade to her own neck, and his happiness at her approval. And really, she did everything for him. For others, too, but also for him. And Murphy realizes, knows now with his whole heart that he would not be alive if not for her.

If this is how Bellamy feels all the time, with his whole big brother personality—eugh. Murphy's not sure he can process any more emotion than this, at least at one time. 

Here's his game plan; once this funeral's over, he's going to find Clarke. He's gonna apologize for all the shitty things he said, and then he's going to help her figure out who killed her. After all, after everything, it's the least he could do.

* * *

Clarke's sitting on the steps to the main level of the city, her dress shining in the distant light of the buildings beyond. 

"Hi," Murphy says, sitting down.

"I just watched my own funeral," she says in lieu of a greeting, and then lets out a small, humorless laugh. "Can you believe?"

"Call me a lunatic, but I don't think that's the craziest thing that's ever happened to us."

"You think an artificial city and demonic AI system is weirder than watching your funeral?" she asks softly, a hint of a smile on her face.

"I was thinking of the random wall of really poisonous air ending the world, but yeah, that too," he replies, grinning. "Look, Clarke—I'm sorry."

She doesn't even glance at him. "For what?" she asks.

"For—everything, I guess. Doubting you. Not sticking up for you and just deciding to hate you because everyone else did."

"I did the wrong thing," Clarke says immediately. "I've done a lot of things that are wrong. You guys should have hated me sooner."

"You did everything for us," Murphy says quietly, echoing his earlier thoughts. "You are a good person, Clarke. And you had your reasons for everything you did." He turns to face her more directly. "I've been where you are, Clarke. I did things that others didn't agree with for my own personal reasons or for someone else. For Emori. And they forgave me."

"I don't think petty theft can be compared to almost getting you guys murdered."

"To save Madi," Murphy reminds her. "I'm not trying to tell you that you did something great. But we love you. In our own ways, but we love you. Even Echo. Especially Monty and Harper. They knew everything that happened and they still loved you unconditionally, and trusted you enough to meet their son first."

"Monty and Harper were too good," Clarke says, and Murphy's surprised to hear how choked up she sounds. She turns her head to face Murphy, tears shining on her face. "You guys were lucky. You got so much time together."

Murphy stands, and then holds out his hand. When she reaches for it, her own hand is solid against his palm, but unforgivably cold. He doesn't let go, however.

"Let's avenge you," he says. "I'm in. A hundred percent. A hundred and two, if you will."

Even Clarke smiles at that."

* * *

"You're spending a lot of time alone," Raven says quietly to him one morning. He stifles his fifth yawn in ten minutes, having stayed up late to discuss things with Clarke. Pieces of memories from that night had begun to return to her, such as where she had been. 

"Well, I'm just—I have a lot on my mind," Murphy says quietly.

"Emori's getting worried about you," she pushes. "Says you're getting distant, and not talking to her. What's going on?"

"It's just—hard to come to terms with," he murmurs. "That she's—you know, gone. Forever."

It's not altogether true, but he realizes, with a sinking feeling, that it might be, one day. Her ghost won't hang around forever.

"I guess," Raven concedes.

Murphy scoffs. "She's _dead,_ Raven. No way you're still holding a grudge."

"Zeke is dead because of her," she snaps.

"That isn't true and you know it," Murphy says. "I know you aren't an idiot, Raven."

"Well, good thing I have all the time in the world," Raven replies. "Like you said, she's dead. She's not going anywhere."

* * *

The next time he sees Clarke, something doesn't really seem right. She seems paler, fainter. And when he taps her freezing shoulder, she seems less solid under his fingertips.

"Hey," he says. "What the hell?"

"I'm running out of time," she says quietly. "Fading, I guess. In a while—I don't know when, but I'll be gone. And I can't come back."

"Then we have to hurry," Murphy says. "Let's review."

"My last memory before I apparently lost it was me leaving the party. Looking to get out of there and get some air."

"Right," Murphy says, crossing his arms.

"There are a few blanks—and I remember that I couldn't move. I was probably paralyzed by something. But I could still feel things. And I felt this—uh, cold surface beneath me. A flat and cold surface."

"Some sort of operating table?" he asks.

"Maybe," she says. Her eyes widen just slightly. "My hair was moved to the side. And there was—there were two people, Murphy. I'm completely sure. I think it was a man and a woman. There was a really bright light on my face."

"I think it's a lab inside the castle," Murphy says. "Clarke, this is progress. If—if we know who it is, then we're set."

"We still don't know what they did," Clarke insists.

"Maybe we do," he counters. "They moved your head to the side. Do you remember any sharp sensation there?"

"Like an injection?" she asks. "Damn it, I don't know."

"Who are you talking to?" comes a muffled voice from outside the door. Bellamy.

"Ah—no one?" Murphy splutters.

Bellamy opens the door, glancing at him. He doesn't see Clarke, whose lips are parted in shock and mild terror.

"Oh," Murphy says. "You—you shaved."

"That isn't important," Bellamy sighs, glancing around the room. "Well, I wasn't really expecting you to be serious."

"Everyone does it at some point," Murphy says defensively.

"I'm leaving," he mutters, and Murphy hears Clarke exhale sharply.

She rises from her chair. "Russell."

"What about him?"

Clarke glances sideways at Murphy. "He was there. He was there when I died."

* * *

"I wanna talk to Russell," Murphy says one night. Everyone looks at him, and Clarke, sitting on the table next to where Bellamy sits, gives him an encouraging nod.

"What the hell are you even looking at?" Echo asks, glancing at where Clarke is, though she must only see empty air.

"Nothing," Murphy mutters. "I want to talk to Russell because I want to know more about what happened."

All the life seems to be sucked out of the table. Bellamy sets his glass down and stares at Murphy. "You mean—what happened to—"

"Yeah," Murphy says, sparing him the torture of trying to say it out loud.

"No," Raven says. "How about we play nice until we have what we need for our own compound?"

"She was murdered," Murphy says quietly, but he doesn't worry about not being heard, not when all the attention is on him. "She was murdered, and we know nothing about it except that it happened. Russell says that the killers were imprisoned? I wanna talk to them. If not to know more, then just for closure." He looks at Bellamy. "For all of us."

Now all the heads have turned to Bellamy, who stares at the table. Clarke fiddles with her dress, looking nervously at Murphy.

"He's right," Bellamy says after a long moment of silence. 

"He's not," Raven says immediately. "Look, I'm all for closure, but it won't look good if we try to go sniffing around."

"You know that's not what Clarke would have done," Emori says. _Oh, you really are the love of my life._ "If she was still alive, and it was Bellamy—or any of us," she amends quickly, avoiding Echo's eye, "you know she would've turned the world over to find out what would have happened."

"It's your call, Bellamy," Echo says, biting her lip. Clarke gives her an incredulous look.

"He's right," he repeats. "Let's talk to Russell."

* * *

Clarke stands beside Murphy as Russell comes out of the palace. His dog immediately starts to sniff her leg, and Murphy tries to suppress the urge to gasp. The dog yaps at Clarke, jumping up and down, and she bends down to pet it, smiling as she does so.

"It looks like someone's petting the dog," Emori says quietly.

"Does it?" Murphy says, his voice an octave higher than normal. "Must be the wind."

"There's no wind," Echo mutters.

Clarke straightens, biting her lip. 

"What is it that you want to know?" Russell asks, stepping away from his wife.

"We want to see the killers," Bellamy says, his voice surprisingly. "We have the right. She was one of us. We should know more."

"I was waiting for you to ask," Russell says, his eyes lowered in what he probably thinks is grief. "Come with me."

Murphy purposely stays in the back so he can speak to Clarke without being bothered.

"Makes no sense," Clarke says quietly. "It's him, and someone else. I know for sure that Russell was one of the killers. I just—"

"Fake killers," Murphy supplies. "Like the fake body."

Russell takes them to one of the lowest sublevels of the castle, and leads them to a small room. Inside it, two men sit, their wrists shackled to the wall.

"This her little family?" one of them ask, grinning sinisterly.

Echo reaches for Bellamy's arms, preparing to hold him back.

"I'll be outside," Russell says softly, stepping out of the room. Clarke grabs Murphy's arm, and for once, he doesn't pay attention to the cold.

"Why."

Of all people, it's Raven who says it. She doesn't even phrase it like a question—it is a broken, emotionless statement.

"Anybody with that blood deserves it," the other man says. "Her, and the blood like a void. She was asking for it."

Bellamy lunges forward, but Echo is strong enough to keep even him back.

"You think she chose that?" Emori asks, walking forward. Murphy stuffs his fist into his mouth. "She was no royal."

"Why did she have royal blood, then?" one says. "They're criminals. Thieves. Dictators. Murderers."

"Says you," Bellamy says through gritted teeth.

"She was awfully pretty, though," the other man says quietly, dangerously. "I regret not having a taste of that—"

It happens faster than Murphy can process—Emori is slapping that man hard across the face, and then slamming his head against the wall. "Don't you— _ever—"_

"Emori, _don't—"_ Raven tries to say, but Russell steps back inside, and Emori immediately pauses.

"I believe it would only be fair to let you bludger him to death," he says to her. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you step away."

Murphy half expects her to say no, but she does straighten. Before she walks away, however, she spits in their faces.

"You killed my friend," she says softly, and Clarke lets go of Murphy's arm to put her hands over her eyes, her shoulders shaking. "You're going to regret that for the rest of your lives."

She turns to face Russell. "I want to see the body."

"I don't," Echo mumbles, but Murphy's the only one who hears. He and Clarke both glance at her. "What?" she murmurs defensively. "It really was awful." She glances at nothing. "And I've seen a lot."

Clarke glances sideways at him, eyes narrowed. "What have they done?" she asks softly. Murphy shrugs.

Russell seems to struggle with Emori's request a little before nodding. "Alright. Come with me."

* * *

"C-can we have some time alone with her?" Murphy asks, looking at the floor. Echo really was right—and it's very hard to focus on the mangled mess of a body that lies on the table, still in a navy blue dress much like the one Clarke wears right now.

"Of course," Russell murmurs, and he backs out of the room, shutting the door.

Bellamy turns around and faces the wall, his hands on the back of his head. "Jesus Christ," he says quietly.

Clarke walks forward towards the body, and when she turns her head, Murphy asks her the silent question with his eyes. _Is it you?_

She shakes her head.

Ignoring the horror of it, Murphy steps forward, looking at it.

"No bruises on the neck," Clarke says. "Same hair color and length. No mole above the lip. There's a mark on my neck, just under my collarbone. It's not there."

Murphy surveys the body. One of the hands is bandaged, but it's a poor job—as if it was done on a limp, dead hand. And the face—it was a little hard to tell, but it most definitely wasn't Clarke's.

"It's not me," she says, looking at him.

"It's not her," Murphy says out loud, causing everyone to look at him.

"What?" Raven asks.

"It isn't her. Come here."

"You—you want us to come over there?" Echo asks, going white.

"Yes," he says impatiently. "Even you, Bellamy."

Reluctantly, he walks forward. 

"Look closely," he says. "Is this Clarke's face?"

"It doesn't really look like anyone's face, John," Emori says.

"She has a mole above her lip, remember?" he insists. "It's not there."

At this, Bellamy frowns, coming close, until his body touches the edge of the table. "Bellamy choked her. "Where are the bruises?"

"They slit her throat, Murphy," Raven says. "I think it would be hard to find bruises there."

Murphy grabs Bellamy's hand and holds it up. "His hands are big. They would have covered a large portion of her neck."

Bellamy winces. "Murphy, I don't think—"

"Look at the empty spaces here," he says, pointing out the skin of the woman's neck where the throat hasn't been sliced open. "There should be finger-shaped bruises there, but nothing." He looks at Clarke's hand, and then at the woman. "The bandage is on the wrong hand."

"Holy shit," Echo says. "That—that's why he didn't let us get too close."

"And he didn't think that we would this time either."

"What does this mean?" Bellamy asks, rubbing his neck, eyes wide.

"I don't know," Murphy says. "It could still mean Clarke is dead. But we know she didn't die the way we all thought."

They all step away from the table, in case Russell walks in. "This means he had something to do with it," Emori says softly, jerking her head towards the door.

"And we need to know," Raven says, her voice uncompromising.

In front of Murphy, Clarke lets loose a heaving gasp as she drops to her knees. His hands twitch, but he freezes, knowing he can't do anything. She takes deep, shaking breaths, before looking up at Murphy, looking even more transparent than before.

He puts his hand on his mouth to keep himself from crying out.

"Soon," she says. "I'll be gone soon."

"Let's go back," Murphy says immediately. "We have to come back with a plan."

* * *

Clarke's eyes are dull when he finds her in his room.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"I wish I was dead," she says quietly. "I know I am, but I want to be completely dead."

He shakes his head. "Clarke—"

"It's better than this meaningless imitation of life, anyway," she says quietly.

"Clarke, we're finally getting somewhere," he says. "You can't lose hope now."

"After this, I'll be gone. Forever. I know we've tried to ignore it for as long as possible, but once I'm gone, I'm gone. You'll never see me again, and I'll never see you. Besides, it's probably going to be a dead end. Raven's right, you know. Building your own compound is more important than trying to avenge me."

It's the worst feeling ever in that moment, but Murphy finds that he agrees.

"Maybe you guys should let it go," she says softly. "It will be hard to convince—to convince _him,_ but you have to let it go."

"No!" Murphy exclaims. "I can't let it go."

She looks up at him.

"You are one of us," he says. "You're one of our best friends. One of my best friends. You have done so much for us, Clarke. We—I can't let it go. Russell killed you, and I can't rest until we have justice, until we know why. You never, _ever_ gave up on us. Do _not_ tell me to give up on you."

She looks down. When she raises her head again, her eyes are glassy. "I'm proud of you, Murphy."

Clarke stands and Murphy pulls her into a hug, not even bothering to mind the cold. She cries into his shoulder, and he takes her hand, fingers on her wrist.

And beneath his fingertips, there's a dull thump.

And another.

And another.

Like—a heartbeat.

A pulse.

"Clarke," he says, pulling away. "Oh, my god, Clarke."

"What?" she asks, frowning.

"Put your hand here," he says, putting his hand on his sternum. Clarke does so, and her mouth falls open in shock.

"You know what this means?" he asks, unable to keep the giddiness out of his voice. "You're still alive, Clarke. You're alive."

* * *

When he finishes, Raven leans back, a breath escaping her lips in a quiet _whoosh._

"So," Echo says. "When she fades, she'll be completely dead. But she's not dead right now."

"Correct," Clarke says.

"Correct," Murphy echoes.

Bellamy leans forward to put his elbows on the desk, burying his face in his hands.

"Why didn't you tell us earlier?" Emori asks quietly.

"Would you have believed me?" Murphy counters.

"Is she here?" Bellamy asks, looking up. "Can she hear me."

"Yes," Murphy says. "She can."

Echo glances sideways at Bellamy before swallowing. "Okay. We want Russell, but we can't forget that Clarke is our _top_ priority, understand? She'll be gone soon, which is why we need to do this fast."

"Now," Murphy insists. "We have to go now. "She's almost gone."

Bellamy gets up. "You heard him. Get ready."

* * *

"Have you come to kill me?" Russell asks softly.

The path behind them is littered with guards, and they all stand, weapons at the ready.

"Where is she?" Murphy asks, pressing the barrel of the gun into his exceedingly large forehead.

"We need her," his wife, Simone, says.

"For what?" Bellamy spits.

"Her blood will save us all," Russell says. "Not only can she be trained to be the next ruler of Sanctum when the time comes, but we can use her to produce more leaders."

"She's dying!" Raven exclaims. "How the fuck is she going to become ruler of Sanctum?"

"She isn't dying," Russell snarls. "She's being frozen in time. She's going to sleep for a very long time, and she will wake up when we need her to."

"You're going to drain her, over and over," Echo says. "Use her, and use her blood." She raises her gun. "And we can't let that happen."

"And we can't let you take her," Simone says softly.

More guards enter the room, and Murphy glances at Bellamy.

"Go find her," Bellamy says softly. "We'll take care of the rest."

And with that, the room explodes into chaos.

* * *

Fuck this castle. Who the hell designed this place anyway? Were the mazes and unnecessary staircases really that important?

"Would you happen to know where you are?" Murphy asks.

"No," Clarke mutters, swearing as she stops to take her heels off and chuck them across the floor. Ghost heels. Murphy keeps that to himself.

"Well, think, Clarke!" he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he enters the elevator.

"There," Clarke says, pointing towards one of the buttons. "Cryo Ward."

"Think you'll be there?" Murphy asks.

"No, Murphy, I'm going to be in the Food Storage level."

He rolls his eyes, and when the elevator doors open, a small army of guards waits.

"Oh, shit," he mumbles. Clarke runs out.

"I'll go look for myself!" she calls back.

It doesn't take too long to take all the guards out, thanks to Murphy's impeccable aim. When he's done, he runs in the direction Clarke had gone, calling her name, but receiving no answer.

He finds her—both of the Clarke's. One of them, real, with color still in her skin and a body that he couldn't see through, lay in a large bed, machines connected to her.

And she was still in her dress.

And the ghost, well, she was slowly fading.

"Clarke," he says, kneeling by the ghost. "Clarke, stay with me—"

"No," she says. "Wake me up, Murphy. Wake me up before I—before I apparently go too far into cryo."

He scrambles to his feet, fiddling with the tablet at the foot of the bed. God, Raven would have been so much better for this, and he nervously glances at Clarke's steadily fading form.

After an eternity, he finally seems to figure out, hitting the button that says **WAKE**.

When Murphy looks at the floor again, Clarke is gone.

And the Clarke in the bed—well, she isn't waking up.

Slowly, he walks over to her, and drops to his knees.

He was too late.

Murphy closes his eyes, dropping his head to the bed.

"Hey," a low voice says, and he feels a tap on his head. "Hey, Murphy."

He looks up, and there she is. Awake; looking like hell, but awake.

"Oh, thank fucking fuck!" he yells, leaping up and pulling her into a hug. She yelps in pain and tells him to go easy, but after a few seconds, he feels her arms come around his body, holding tight. Her tears land on his clothes, and he pulls back, grabbing her shoulders.

"You're alive," he promises. "You are here and you're alive."

After a moment, she nods, crying. "God, I hated being dead."

"Not a great feeling, is it?" he says with a laugh.

"Murphy—! Oh," Bellamy says, walking in. "Oh, my god."

"Hi," she says.

Everyone else storms in, and Raven shoves Murphy out of the way to hug her.

"Oh, hey," Clarke mumbles, burying her face in Raven's hair.

"Thank god you aren't dead," Echo says, reaching out to grab Clarke's hand.

"Thank you," she says.

"Move," Bellamy says softly, and Raven does. Bellamy approaches her slowly, cupping her cheek. "I thought I lost you again," he says softly.

Murphy's eyes are most definitely not burning, or watering.

She sighs. "You didn't, Bellamy." She puts her hand over his. "I'm right here."

He leans forward and kisses her, deeply and hungrily, and everyone glances away, eyes widening. Clarke's eyes fly open when he pulls away and she immediately looks at Echo, who waves her hand in an _it's fine_ sort of gesture. In fact, she seems to be grinning smugly—Murphy can only take that to mean that not only did she break up with Bellamy, but she also told him to get his shit together. Nice.

"Russell?" Clarke asks. "Who—"

"Russell and Simone were the ones who did this to you," Emori explains. "The two of them are currently with our people, awaiting interrogation. And some sort of trial, I guess. And turns out it's not even the first time they've tried this. You're the first one to have survived the process of preserving and hiding you."

"They killed someone to fool you," Clarke says. "We need to—"

"Right now, you need rest," Echo says. "I promise we'll figure everything out later."

"Yeah," Clarke murmurs, reaching for Murphy's arm and holding it tight, her eyes bright despite her state. "I guess we will."

**Author's Note:**

> yes i know thats not how cryo sleep works shoot me


End file.
